<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Where Every Stay Feels Like Home by MoreHuman</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750736">Where Every Stay Feels Like Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreHuman/pseuds/MoreHuman'>MoreHuman</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(as much as canon is compliant), Canon Compliant, Christmas, Family Fluff, Gen, Jokes, Post-Canon, Puzzles, Too many cooks, no story here only Easter eggs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:40:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreHuman/pseuds/MoreHuman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Brewer family holiday wishlist: 1. Surprises 2. Escape rooms 3. Surprise escape rooms</p><p>The Rose family holiday wishlist: 1. Getting the hell out of here</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Johnny Rose/Moira Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd &amp; David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek: Frozen Over (2020)</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Where Every Stay Feels Like Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">



        <li>In response to a prompt by
            Anonymous in the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver2020">SCFrozenOver2020</a>
          collection.
        </li>
    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <b>Prompt:</b>
</p><p>  <i>The Brewer Family escape room is an annual tradition around the holidays. During the Roses' and Brewers' first holiday together, they all attempt to escape the room. Maybe in more ways than one lol. Dysfunction and miscommunication welcome but hopefully the balance is fun/happy. </i></p><p>  <i>Would love an ensemble-type fic for this!</i></p><p>Had to claim this prompt because I 👏🏻 love 👏🏻 escape 👏🏻 rooms.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>60 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>The door closes, and David’s having trouble breathing? Suddenly?</p><p>He’s not claustrophobic. Well, he’s not <em>not</em> claustrophobic. Getting dumped by Zoë Kravitz in the catacombs beneath Edinburgh definitely left a mark. But no, it’s not the smallness of the space or the large number of people occupying it that’s catching at his throat. It’s that wall of turquoise bricks. And that black and white comforter set. And that… that <em>fucking</em> cedar chest.</p><p>Next to him, his mother is keening, “No, John, no,” with a rising intensity, like a kettle of misery coming to boil.</p><p>“Oh my—” David breaks off and his sister steps in without missing a beat.</p><p>“—god? <em>Oh</em> my god!”</p><p>“Now this is unexpected.” His father is the only one capable of complete sentences, apparently. Or maybe not. “That is, it’s certainly—Not that I mind the—Memories have such a strong—Wow.”</p><p>“I can’t believe this.” Stevie strokes one of the cheap polyester curtains. “The <em>detail</em>!”</p><p>Patrick hasn’t moved. “What’s it been, three years since we last celebrated Christmas in this room? I mean, not <em>this</em> room, but—” None of them have moved, all crowded just inside the entrance, except for the two people who brought them here.</p><p>“Um.” Mrs. Brewer clutches her husband’s arm over by the door to the bathroom. No, there can’t actually be a bathroom behind that door. This isn’t actually the motel. “Surprise?”</p><p>“Welcome, Rose family!” Ray’s voice arrives from overhead, like a crow attack but even more disorienting. David ducks on instinct, then he spots the speaker perched on top of the closet, playing a recorded message. “You’ve just been betrayed by a close friend and business associate, and now you’ve been stripped of every penny and possession you’ve ever owned. Well, not <em>every</em> possession. Your fortunes have landed you in Schitt’s Creek, a town so worthless the government didn’t see the point in reclaiming it. Can you find your way out? You have one hour to escape or end up stuck here forever. Good luck! You might start with the chest, where—”</p><p>“No!” The rest of the announcement disappears inside Moira’s wail. “Noooooo! Not again!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>58 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>“Remind me again why this was supposed to be fun?”</p><p>David should’ve asked this in a more loving way, probably. His in-laws are within earshot, and they don’t exactly have a Rose-level tolerance for listening to the people who love them complain about something they’ve done. David’s put one or two or a dozen of those particular feet into his particular mouth over the years.</p><p>“When they told me the plan, I didn’t know this was going to be the theme of the room.”</p><p>Patrick perches next to him on the end of David’s bed. No, not David’s bed. The bed that <em>looks like</em> David’s. David has never slept here. No one has ever slept here. God, he really hopes no one has ever slept here. Ray’s Russian-nesting-doll approach to his businesses wouldn’t extend to AirBnB-ing this room overnight for a cheap rate, right? Just to be safe, David vows never to check.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Since David can’t count on keeping his tone nice, he keeps it low. “You knew your parents were planning to bring us to <em>Ray’s</em> new escape room business, which he’s running out of <em>Mutt’s old barn</em>, and you had no follow-up questions?”</p><p>“You’re the one who wanted to leave it up to them!”</p><p>“Yes, as a gesture! A gracious indulgence of the adorable Brewer infatuation with surprises! You weren’t supposed to <em>actually</em> leave it up to them!”</p><p>“You’re just lucky I vetoed ice fishing.”</p><p>David groans into his palms. “Why couldn’t my parents have raised us with our own Christmas traditions, like a normal family? Then we wouldn’t be stuck borrowing yours!”</p><p>And this is exactly how those particular feet always end up in this particular mouth. What David means to say to his husband is, <em>Thank god your family knows how to celebrate this holiday in a way that doesn’t involve hair straighteners or war-torn conifers.</em> But instead he says it this way, because he’s a monster.</p><p>“David.” The corners of Patrick’s mouth turn down and his eyes get deep, because when David complains, he knows how to listen. “I think your family is very normal.”</p><p>On the other bed, David’s mother is currently re-enacting the scene of Vivian Blake’s second fatal heart attack in an attempt to trick the door into opening.</p><p>“Agree to disagree.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>57 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>After Patrick goes to run interference with his parents—presumably he’s interpreting the explosion of Rose emotion into whatever language people with stable upbringings speak—Stevie sprawls herself across the bed. “Have you seen the—”</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>“But have you seen the—”</p><p>“Yes. I’ve seen everything, I used to live here, thank you so much.”</p><p>He hasn’t actually seen everything, but he’s seen enough. The illusion is impressive, not perfect. The coffee maker next to the other bed should come with a stack of brown cups, not blue. The mirror next to the bathroom should have a bevel. The cotton in this sheet set is decidedly not Egyptian.</p><p>Anyway. He can’t spend all night playing spot-the-difference with his memories, like some kind of live-action <em>Highlights</em> magazine.</p><p>“I’m working on a theory that Ray used to sneak into your room every night to collect research, preparing for this day.” Stevie sounds way too delighted about this. “Like an Edward Cullen who’s obsessed with entrepreneurship instead of high school girls.”</p><p>“Stevie.” He shoves at her feet. “You’re not helping.”</p><p>Stevie recoils, offense in her eyes. “When do I ever help?”</p><p>David forms his mouth around a reply, then his eye catches on something on the table that he can’t ignore.</p><p>“Okay!” He gets off the bed and crosses the room, needing to be sure. He crouches low until the apple is at his eyeline and—Yes. Half-eaten. “How the fuck did Ray know about <em>this</em>?”</p><p>“Sorry!” The speakers crackle slightly on the word. It’s not a recording. “Sorry, David! I was eating my lunch in there earlier and forgot to clean up. Ignore the apple, everyone! It’s not part of any puzzle!”</p><p>The puzzles. Right. Fuck.</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>52 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>“So this lock needs four letters.” Mrs. Brewer tugs at the combination padlock attached to the front of the cedar chest. “The setup said something about your mother booking some commercial?”</p><p>“There was also a bit about something called Ray’s Rideshare, for if you’re ever feeling too tipsy to drive, but that seemed more like an ad than a clue.” Mr. Brewer has his arms crossed, radiating a kind of intensely overcompetent energy that David recognizes. The recognition is pretty inconvenient, actually, given that it’s aimed at his father-in-law. “Any ideas?”</p><p>“Mmm.” This is the part that David hates. He’s supposed to, what, perform his thought process out loud? For everyone to hear? “I try not to have four-letter ideas. Um, if I can help it.”</p><p>“Oh my god, David.” Alexis appears next to him. “Look what Mom found under my pillow.”</p><p>Eyes sparkling, she hands him an empty wine bottle.</p><p>“You let her drink this?” Wait, he recognizes this label. There’s only one winery that makes a starfruit Chablis. “She drank this?!”</p><p>“Ew, David, no. It’s a prop! But look above the logo. Instead of Herb Ertlinger it says Bingo Lingfucker.” She taps out the five syllables with one ballet-pink fingernail against the glass. Her shoulders crumple in towards each other the way they do when she’s trying to hold in a laugh. “Remember?”</p><p>David does remember. The day the commercial first aired, their mother tried to get them all to screen it in her room. Alexis just turned up the syndicated Desperate Housewives and pretended they couldn’t hear her. It came on during their next commercial break anyway. And the one after that. And the one after that. What Herb saved in his grape budget he apparently spent on local airtime. He definitely hadn’t spent it on video editing or quality control, because of all the names television’s Moira Rose spoke into the camera at the end, not a single one was his. Not a single one was a name, really. And there was one in particular that made David put down his book and Alexis look up from her phone. Across the space between their beds, they locked delighted, horrified, <em>delighted</em> eyes.</p><p>The commercial got funnier and funnier every time, and the first time was <em>hysterical</em>. The network caught on eventually and by the nine-o’clock hour it had been pulled. But David’s ribs hurt for days, and the sound of Alexis giggle-snorting kept him going for months. It was the hardest he’d laughed in years.</p><p>“Yes, Alexis, perfect.” Patrick takes the wine bottle from David’s hand. “See how the crabapple stem at the top of the logo is pointing to the O in Bingo? That has to be a letter for the lock. We need to find three more of these bottles hidden somewhere in the room.”</p><p>“Oh. Patrick.” Alexis flips one curl over her shoulder. She’s a brunette these days; it suits her. “I invented all the hiding spots in this room, follow me.”</p><p>David points after them. “Okay but don’t forget to check behind the—”</p><p>“Air vent cover.” Alexis gives him one of her adorable-insufferable double-winks. “I know.”</p><p>They all end up pitching in. Well, everyone except his parents, who are still holding down the second bed as a place of mourning. Alexis does end up pulling a wine bottle out from the air vent—Bert Herngreif—and Mrs. Brewer finds another—Irv Hermlinger—rolled under the nightstand. Stevie tracks down the last—Bing Livehinger—sleeved inside the lampshade. Mr. Brewer is the one who figures out they need to enter the four letters in order of the vintage listed on each label. (<em>Who</em> exactly is drinking this wine from 1962? Ground fruit does not sound like something that gets better with age.) Patrick insists on letting David work the lock, probably because he thinks that will get him invested.</p><p>When the cedar chest opens, there’s a chorus of cheers, and if David’s is the loudest, well. Who’s to say?</p><p>Then he’s staring down at—</p><p>“Oh my god.”</p><p>He’s staring down at his Power of Love Givenchy sweatshirt. Well, except this is definitely not Givenchy. Or a sweatshirt. Or his. It’s a silkscreened long sleeve t-shirt probably printed by whoever does Ray’s mousepads. But it’s supposed to be his Power of Love Givenchy sweatshirt. It’s symbolic.</p><p>“Oh my god.”</p><p>He can see other familiar patterns peeking out from deeper down in the chest—black zebra stripes and orange flames and the tip of a white lightning bolt.</p><p>“Well.” Patrick lands a hand between David’s shoulder blades. “I guess we have our next puzzle.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>46 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>“But storing mohair next to leather is incorrect! It has to breathe!”</p><p>“I understand that, David.” Patrick keeps stacking the clothes all wrong. They are neither mohair nor leather, of course. Rayon/jersey blend, if David had to guess. It’s the principle of the thing. “But I highly doubt Ray constructed a puzzle around your knit organization preferences. It’s not common knowledge.”</p><p>“It’s common sense!”</p><p>Stevie grabs the first shirt off the top of the pile, creasing the imitation Neil Barrett lightning bolt in the process. “Maybe we should sort them into fit, fabric, and nationality.”</p><p>“Okay. That’s enough out of you.”</p><p>Mr. Brewer comes back from somewhere else; David can’t be expected to keep track of where. “So I checked, and the combination to the closet is five digits. It definitely has something to do with the numbers written on the shirt tags.”</p><p>“6, 3, 2, 7, 4.” Mrs. Brewer sifts through the pile Patrick made, reading each of the five tags in turn. “There must be some way it makes sense to order these.”</p><p>David can think of about seventeen different ways that make sense. Fabric content is out, probably, Patrick’s right. But there’s still alphabetically by designer, chronologically by runway year, visually by boldness, thematically by mood... Is any of that common knowledge? What do common people know?</p><p>“There could be a clue in all this stuff, but how would you tell?” Stevie pulls an absolute mountain of clothes and shoes and bags out from under David’s—the bed closest to the door. “Here’s a hair dryer. Does that seem relevant?”</p><p>“Oooh, let me know if you find my MAC lip liner in there somewhere! I left it behind when I moved and it’s discontinued now and—”</p><p>“Alexis.” David brings his fingers to his temples. “You couldn’t have left anything behind here. You’ve never been here! This isn’t the motel!”</p><p>“I know that, David. I’m just saying <em>if</em> she finds it to let me know!”</p><p>“Um. Guys? I think I found something else.”</p><p>From the tone of Stevie’s voice, David can tell he’s about to hate whatever it is. He scowls. “What is it?”</p><p>Stevie holds up what looks like a photo album, bound in blue and black, with the initials DR and PB printed on the front in looping script. There’s a plus sign between them and a heart around them.</p><p>“Oh.” The terror of impending sentimentality chills down David’s spine. “Oh no.”</p><p>“Oh yes, David!” Alexis claps her hands together and reaches for the album. That’s bad enough. When she flips open the front cover, it gets infinitely worse.</p><p>Tina Turner’s voice blasts from the speakers, but only briefly. Then a recorded Ray voice starts <em>speaking over her</em>. As if The Best is <em>anyone’s</em> backing track.</p><p>“From the moment they first met, David Rose and Patrick Brewer have been the It Couple of Schitt’s Creek, proving that—”</p><p>“Oh my god.” David reaches for his ears, but no gesture is loud enough to drown out the knowledge that this is happening.</p><p>“—with courage, determination, and a little push from fate, love really is—”</p><p>“Okay <em>this</em>? Is unnecessary.” Dimly, David is aware that somewhere in the room, his husband is laughing.</p><p>“—possible for anyone.”</p><p>“For anyone?!” David glares straight into the speaker. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“Please enjoy this scrapbook lovingly handcrafted by Photo’s by Ray, available for weddings, proposals, baby showers, baby sprinkles, funerals, and passport photos. No matter your occasion, we make it...”</p><p>Tina sings out one last “Simply the best!” and then. Mercifully. Silence.</p><p>Except. Oh fuck. Silence.</p><p>“Um.” David waves his arms in every direction he can think of, trying not to look anywhere or at anyone. “Let’s just pretend we all—”</p><p>Patrick snakes an arm around his waist and cuts that thought short. “I think that was very sweet.”</p><p>Of course he says that. Patrick would say that whether he actually thought it was sweet or not, just to make sure David is well and truly suffering.</p><p>“Aw, David.” Alexis is flipping through the pages of the book. Oh god. “I haven’t seen someone pull this many pictures of you out from under a bed since that time Anna Kendrick showed me her burn book.”</p><p>David peers around the edge of the scrapbook for a glimpse. He hates it. It’s full of photos of him and Patrick, mostly in the early days of their relationship, next to captions like “Rose Apothecary grand opening!” and “First date!” and “Plungers at the front of the store!” and “Oh no, loitering teens!” in sparkly gel pen bubble letters. There are hearts <em>everywhere</em>. Not that there’s anything wrong with hearts. Or sparkles. Or photos of him with the love of his life. Those all have their place. Okay, so he doesn’t hate it. But people are watching him look at this thing, and he can’t bear to show them a reaction other than disgust. If he lets that veneer crack, who knows what might peek through from below.</p><p>“Well how about that, David!” Oh good, his dad is butting in. Just what this situation needs. “What a nice set of memories, huh?”</p><p>“Oh my god, what do you want?”</p><p>“We want to help. Don’t we, honey?”</p><p>“Yes.” His mother takes a theatrical breath, straight from the diaphragm. “Your father has convinced me that it’s no use exiling myself in despair when instead we can all band together and despair as one.”</p><p>“Yes. Well.” His dad looks around at everyone and nods at seemingly no one. “We want to help.”</p><p>Mrs. Brewer is flipping through the book now, smiling at whatever Alexis is pointing out to her, and David really wishes people would stop with the flipping and the pointing. She looks up at her son with round eyes. “I’ve never seen any of these, Patrick.”</p><p>Patrick sidles in next to her and keeps flipping. “To be honest, neither have I.”</p><p>“This is a great experience though, huh, David?” Now his dad is clapping his hands together, like a tragic summer camp counselor trying to generate enthusiasm. “What a treat to revisit these moments. Together. Here. Again. Where we all watched you two fall in love. Here. Again.”</p><p>Mr. Brewer looks up from the book. “Not all of us were here to watch that, Johnny.”</p><p>“Oh yes, of course! Of course not all—I just meant—We’re glad to have been here to see those days, and we’re grateful to be here again to—But also, missing them—Missing them would have been fine!”</p><p>“Okay Dad, you can stop talking now, the Brewers don’t need—” But David’s just caught sight of himself in the leather Givenchy with the stars and zippers, kneeling in front of Patrick on the floor of their store. He’s sweaty and grinning, and all four of their arms are raised in the air. <em>BACK TOGETHER AGAIN!</em> the bubble letters say. “What the fuck! How did Ray even get a photo of this? This was a private moment!”</p><p>“Odd choice to have a private moment in front of a big picture window.” Stevie’s grin is the definition of shark-toothed. “You had to have known people could see you.”</p><p>“Are you going to make <em>any</em> helpful comments tonight? Because if not, there’s a cedar chest I can lock you in.”</p><p>“Look!” Patrick jabs a finger at the page, oblivious to everything in his enthusiasm. “The photo has a date! November 9th. I wonder if that’s a clue.”</p><p>“November?” David cranes his neck to check, but that is indeed what it says. “That can’t be right, this happened in the middle of summer.”</p><p>Patrick blinks up at him. “No, that’s right. This was right after our four-month anniversary, remember? Four months after your birthday, which is in July. It was November.”</p><p>“Huh.” Even David can’t argue with that math. “Why did I think it was summer? That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”</p><p>“It had to have been fall. Why would you have been wearing a leather sweater in summer?”</p><p>“Hi, have we met?”</p><p>“The sweater!” Mrs. Brewer is already bringing the book over to the table with the numbered shirts. “The date!”</p><p>“Marcy, you’re onto something!” Mr. Brewer picks up the shirt meant to represent the sweater in the photo. “So this one with the stars is from November 9th. What about this one with the flames?”</p><p>Mrs. Brewer flips until she finds a photo of David, hugged in on himself, watching Patrick up on stage. “October 16th!”</p><p>“Okay, so flames before stars.”</p><p>They start searching for the photo with the Saint Laurent zebra stripe next, and a hot, wet pressure builds behind David’s eyes. He’d thought of ordering the sweaters seventeen different ways, but not autobiographically according to his own love story. Someone actually constructed a puzzle around him falling in love with Patrick and what he chose to wear while that happened. Ray did that. He noticed. It’s too much to think about.</p><p>“I don’t know about you.” Patrick gets an arm around David’s waist again, presses a kiss to his neck. “But I remember the right order pretty clearly.”</p><p>David nods and leans harder into his husband’s chest. “Why don’t we let them figure it out, though? Looks like they’re having fun.”</p><p>They do, too—all of them crowded around the table and the photos, pointing and yelling and grabbing at the shirts in a way that would be entirely unacceptable if they were actual fashion. Stevie dashes to the closet and starts punching in the code as they figure it out. His mom nominates herself for the job of projecting the final combination across the distance. David hangs back, listening to Patrick <em>hmmm</em> along with every number:</p><p>4 - zebra stripes<br/>
3 - lightning bolt<br/>
6 - flames<br/>
7 - stars<br/>
2 - power of love</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>31 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>“Love this cute lil home office for me! Aw, and look at my baby succulent, all thriving in its new, bigger pot!”</p><p>“Alexis, if you’re going to stop and coo over every single thing you pull out of this closet, we will literally never get out of here.” David takes the plant from her hands. “Also, this succulent is plastic.”</p><p>“Ugh, I know that, David! But it’s like, a metaphor or whatever. For my new life in New York.”</p><p>“What’s the plastic a metaphor for? How you’re a Times Square person now?”</p><p>“Okay, I went there <em>twice</em>, and you know Twyla has always dreamed of visiting the M&amp;M store! Poor thing.”</p><p>“Mmm, what was the other time, then?”</p><p>“Children, isn’t the lingering fester of old wounds enough to bear tonight?” Their mother sits down on the bed, which makes their dad leap into hover mode. “Let’s not open new ones.”</p><p>“Only thirty minutes left, Moira.” The reassurance in his father’s voice dials up into fake-sounding excitement as he raises it. “I mean, boy only thirty minutes left? I hope we can make it!”</p><p>This is for the Brewers’ benefit—obviously—but none of them are listening. The three of them are crowded in front of the closet, shuffling objects around, muttering to each other, and actually playing the game. Like the functional people with the legitimate attention spans that they are.</p><p>“I think we’ll find the next clue in these papers somewhere.” Patrick cleans out the last of the drawers.</p><p>Mrs. Brewer takes the binder he hands her and pages through it. “Maybe something to do with the highlighting? Though that covers basically… everything.”</p><p>There was no audio cue when they opened the closet, thank god, but there was still an ad for another Butani business. A slightly smaller-than-life cardboard cutout of Ray gestures wide-armed at the shelves next to him, a speech bubble above his head:</p><p>
  <em>Organization so beautiful, why would you ever lock it away in a closet?!<br/>
Ask us about our innovative storage and productivity solutions today!</em>
</p><p>It’s very small print.</p><p>The rest of the closet is packed with shelves and drawers and a little stowable desk surface that can be adjusted to sitting or standing height. It does really seem like an innovative office setup for small spaces, but David can’t look directly at it to be sure. The letterhead tucked inside one cubby and the business cards peeking down from a top shelf all have the Alexis Rose Communications logo that his sister stopped using a year ago. When she merged with the largest boutique firm in Brooklyn to found Rose &amp; Posey PR, they’d had to redesign it. Seeing the three letters where all that started hits David right in the proudest area of his chest. So he looks in glances.</p><p>“Okay this isn’t… Who wrote this?” Alexis has apparently traveled far enough down memory lane to set the succulent aside, and she’s now looking over Mrs. Brewer’s shoulder at something in the binder. “You don’t put words like—” She brings her nose closer to the page and reads carefully. “Like ‘respendence’ and ‘notwitstanding’ in a press release.”</p><p>“Not<em>with</em>standing, honey.”</p><p>“Dad, no!” Alexis taps the page with emphasis. “Right here it says ‘not<em>wit</em>standing.’ There’s no H!”</p><p>Suddenly all the Brewers are in motion.</p><p>“No H?” Mr. Brewer swivels around.</p><p>Patrick taps in a different spot. “And no L in ‘resplendent’...”</p><p>“I think…” Mrs. Brewer pulls a pen out of her pocket and clicks the end of it decisively. She scans the text quickly, jotting letters onto a post-it as she goes—H L C L I. “Yes.”</p><p>“IT’S A CIPHER!” Patrick pumps a fist. “We’ve got a cipher, people!”</p><p>David’s husband and his parents engage in a loud and inexplicable series of high fives.</p><p>Stevie flinches and rubs at one ear. “I should really learn to bring earplugs to these things.”</p><p>The promise of clarity charges the air again, draws everyone back in, but it’s short lived. The Brewers can’t agree between them on what kind of cipher they’re dealing with here, and David can’t be bothered to get involved in that discussion. The second they start talking about some kind of Caesar that has nothing to do with the Ides of March or croutons, he’s out.</p><p>Stevie hands him the old-school flip phone that was the first thing Alexis unearthed from the closet. “Do you think this has the snake game?”</p><p>When he flips it open, though, there’s just a blank field to text a blocked number and no apparent way to back out of it.</p><p>“Well that’s a bummer.” Stevie tugs at the charm dangling from the phone, a tiny replica of scrambled eggs that Alexis declared <em>super cute</em> before setting it aside. “Think this is a clue?”</p><p>“Um.” Why does everything about this fucking activity feel like a test? “Maybe?”</p><p>But Stevie looks like she’s already decided without him. “Hey, Patrick. Chill!”</p><p>Patrick spins around, all tension, his shoulders climbing to a 7 on a scale of 10. “There’s no time to chill! We only have—”</p><p>“No, CHILL.” Stevie points to the post-it with the letters. “That’s the unscrambled message! It has something to do with this phone. I think we have to send a text.”</p><p>Alexis slides the phone out of David’s hand. “Stevie! You little genius! Lucky for you all, I learned how to type in T9 literally with my hands tied behind my back and a gun to my head, so these stakes are nothing!”</p><p>She finishes spelling out CHILL, hits send with a flourish, and immediately there’s the ring of a second phone from somewhere in the closet.</p><p>Mr. Brewer tilts his head and crouches down. “I think it’s coming from under here. This must be a false bottom.”</p><p>God, this is getting campy. David can’t look away. Mr. Brewer nudges aside the cardboard cutout, presses into the seam of the floorboard, and pops it open. Inside, there’s the second phone, lit up and ringing, a motel room key, and another tiny, waving Ray with another speech bubble: <em>Let us respect your privacy!</em> Well that sounds very insistent.</p><p>Wait. The key. Everyone sees it at once, and there’s an explosion of noise and celebration.</p><p>“We’re saved!” His mother might be sobbing.</p><p>Someone grabs the key out of the case, someone else brings it halfway across the room, where another someone else takes it over. It passes hand to hand, like everyone wants their moment to savor the victory of it. Somehow it’s David who ends up sliding it into the lock on the door.</p><p>“I really thought we had more left to—” Patrick cuts himself off, because the key isn’t turning.</p><p>“The key isn’t turning.” David tries it a third time, just to be thrice sure.</p><p>“No. No, no. It has to turn.” As usual, his dad isn’t getting it. “It says that’s the key to room seven, and this is room seven.”</p><p>David finds his sister’s eyes. A mutual squint passes between them.</p><p>“Um. Dad?” Alexis used to talk to his Tamagotchis with more respect than this. “This is room eight.”</p><p>“No. No! it’s room seven. You and David lived in room seven.” His dad’s eyebrows ruffle themselves up, then settle. “Didn’t you live in room seven at some point?”</p><p>“No, <em>you</em> lived in room seven.” David’s still holding tightly onto the key. “We always lived in room eight.”</p><p>“I could’ve sworn—”</p><p>“They’re right, Mr. Rose.” Thank god for Stevie. “We’re in room eight. Which means if that’s the key to room seven, then it unlocks…”</p><p>Her voice trails off, but they all follow it anyway. Eight heads turn to look at the door that they’ve all ignored until now. David spent years of his life trying to ignore this door.</p><p>He holds out the key. “Someone else do it!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>25 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>Room seven is decked out for Christmas because of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Garlands and lights and tinsel everywhere. All eight flames of a menorah are flickering brightly over by the TV, which is a nice touch. If this under-ventilated room burns down with all of them locked inside, at least it will be in the name of religious inclusion. There must be another speaker in here somewhere, because Ray’s recorded voice accosts them as soon as they’re all through the door:</p><p>“The holidays are always a special time of year in Schitt’s Creek, whenever that time arrives, but the Roses didn’t always used to take part in celebrations. Forced to abandon their wealthy traditions, they kept to themselves all December long. Then one year, the spirit hit them with all the force of an unexpected gift from Johnny Rose. If you look closely, you might find a few wrapped up and waiting for you under the tree—which, I must say, is looking fabulous! Stop by the northwest corner of the barn to purchase your own when and if you make it out of here!”</p><p>Stevie tosses the room key onto the night stand and herself onto the bed. “Well that was cheerfully ominous.”</p><p>It’s worth noting that the tree is bigger and fuller than any they could ever afford when they lived here. Ray knows nothing if not how to sell himself.</p><p>“Okay, I’m just saying it right now.” David gives an emphatic sweep of his right hand. “If solving one of these puzzles involves caroling in front of Mom’s wig wall, I will have no part in it.”</p><p>“Aaaaah! My girls!” Oh no. David should not have drawn his mother’s attention to the wigs. “Replaced by imposters! Who’s done this to you?!”</p><p>“Moira, now remember your wigs are at home, safe and…”</p><p>David tunes his parents out. That ought to keep them occupied for a while at least. Which is good because—</p><p>“I say we unwrap these presents!”</p><p>—when Patrick ushers everyone else over, there are only six gift bags to pass around. Clearly Ray is a man who cares about ultimate gameplay. Not enough, though, or he wouldn’t have let eight yelly people in here at once.</p><p>Alexis accepts her bag with far too much glee. “Yay, Patrick!”</p><p>“Okay, you know you won’t get to keep whatever that is, right?”</p><p>“Ugh, of course, David! But like, it’s the thought that counts.”</p><p>“Are you sure I don’t get to keep this?” Stevie’s holding up a book with her own face on it. They are all holding books with Stevie’s face on it. And Roland’s. And a photo of famed entrepreneur Johnny Rose extending a key toward the camera and looking so corny. “Because I really need another copy.”</p><p>“Oh my god!”</p><p>“<em>Check into Success</em>. What is this?” Mrs. Brewer turns the book over in her hands, and David tries not to bristle with defensiveness that she doesn’t recognize it.</p><p>Stevie shrugs. “Oh, it’s just the inspirational business self-help book that some ghostwriter slapped my name on.”</p><p>“She’s selling herself short.” David pulls himself up straighter on his best friend’s behalf. “The book was her idea, and she pitched it to publishers all on her own.”</p><p>“Yes, and then when I turned in my draft of the first chapter, my editor insisted on a ghostwriter.”</p><p>“Literally, who cares? They’re your ideas! Everyone knows writing the words is the easiest part.”</p><p>“We’re very proud of her.” Patrick always knows just how to cut to the chase of this kind of thing. God, David loves him.</p><p>“We’ll have to get a copy, Marcy.” God, David loves Patrick’s dad, too, and okay, that’s enough, this is getting kind of—</p><p>“Oh no, someone vandalized the coasters! No more Tweeters!” Alexis picks up a stack of red Rosebud Motel Group coasters from the nightstand. Flipping one of them around in her fingers, she shows off the handful of precise, rectangular holes cut out of it. “David, have you taken up decoupaging again?”</p><p>“For the last time, I have never <em>decoupaged</em>!” David diagrams his next sentence in the air with his fingers, because it’s important that everyone grasps it. “I <em>minored</em> in fiber arts!”</p><p>“Alexis, can I see those?” Patrick reaches for the coasters.</p><p>Mr. Brewer leans in. “They look like viewing disks?”</p><p>“But for what page?”</p><p>This is clearly more puzzle people talk, so David hangs back and waits to understand. Patrick reads a number off the coaster—something to do with the area code of the phone number, etc. etc. whatever—and Mrs. Brewer flips to that page in the book. Sure enough, there’s a circle drawn there that Patrick fits the coaster inside, twisting until the holes frame out just a few of the printed words. Whose brain works like this? It seems exhausting.</p><p>It takes the next three coasters and more yelling about page numbers to piece the full message together, but finally:</p><p>“When you need me, you throw me away. But when you’re done with me, you bring me back.”</p><p>“I think I remember those emo lyrics from high school. Is that Fall Out Boy?” Stevie isn’t being serious, but maybe David is the only one who can tell.</p><p>“An anchor!” Alexis strides with purpose toward the painting of a sailboat hanging over the bed. “The boat!”</p><p>She pulls it down, revealing a combination safe built into the wall underneath.</p><p>Patrick chews his lip. “Nice one, Alexis.”</p><p>David’s still about twelve steps behind whatever is happening here, but before he can dwell on it, his mother starts screeching in a language he doesn’t recognize on the other side of the room. Could be Bosnian. Or Crow.</p><p>“Moira, don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out! These aren’t even—”</p><p>David closes his eyes in anticipation of what’s coming next. The unmistakable <em>swish</em> and <em>snick</em> of the accordion door to the closet, followed by the wailing from within. Of all the doors for Ray to leave unlocked.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>13 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>“So we’re definitely supposed to rearrange them somehow, otherwise the hooks wouldn’t be numbered. But how?” Patrick gestures with two fistfuls of cheap wig.</p><p>While Alexis, Stevie, and the Brewers are still doing whatever with the safe over the bed, Patrick assigned himself the role of wig wrangler. As if <em>he’s</em> the one with the training. If his mother weren’t shut inside a closet, she would scream. Well, scream more than she already is.</p><p>“If you have any love for me at all, Kirsten and Robyn will be sufficiently separated!”</p><p>“Mom, we already covered this with my sweaters! The puzzle doesn’t work like that, it’s not common knowledge.”</p><p>“Tell that to the ‘Top 10 Moira Rose Wig Feuds’ listicle that’s been on the Buzzfeed best seller list for one-hundred-and-twenty-seven weeks running, David!”</p><p>“Okay, no micromanaging from the peanut gallery, thanks so much!” David turns his back on the closet.</p><p>“Moira.” His dad taps a gentle staccato against the door handle. “Moira, if you want to help, you’ll have to come out of there.”</p><p>Patrick is staring at the wig wall like Russell Crowe on his way to an undeserved Oscar nomination. “Twenty-four wigs, twenty-four hooks, each with a number one through six, but not divided evenly. There are eight sixes but only two twos.” He picks up a framed photograph from the vanity. “There are six of us in this Christmas photo. Is that connected somehow?”</p><p>David takes a look. He remembers when this was taken, right in this room—<em>not</em> this room, god—the first year they decided to celebrate Christmas together as a family, not just for show. His parents and sister smile from one half of the photo; on the other, Stevie and Patrick crowd in on either side of David and the silver zig-zag sweater he chose as an homage to Charlie Brown.</p><p>“Mmm.” David swipes his thumb across the glass. Does he have an idea? “Maybe we have to match the wigs to our hair color? In order of how we’re standing? So beach blonde for Alexis first, then gray second for my dad, and so on. Champagne blonde, black, brown, red.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, red?” Patrick grabs the frame back. “Who has red hair in this photo?”</p><p>“Um. You do?”</p><p>“David.” Patrick looks up. “My hair is brown.”</p><p>“What? No, you’re wrong.” This probably isn’t the time to get into this, but David has never once backed down from a challenge to his understanding of color theory. Just ask his Kindergarten teacher. “I mean it’s not <em>red</em>-red, obviously, but there’s a definite ginger-ish, auburn-ish undertone. It’s really your lack of eyebrows that gives it away.”</p><p>“I can’t believe it! All these years you thought you’ve been married to a redhead.”</p><p>“I <em>am</em> married to a redhead!”</p><p>“David, <em>I</em> almost married a redhead. I’m texting Rachel about this later and she’ll set you straight.”</p><p>“Oh, Rachel and I already discussed this last Thanksgiving. She agrees with me. It’s why you look so good in blue.”</p><p>“Unbelievable!” But Patrick’s giving his widest, deepest, warmest grin, with a laugh to match. It’s better than winning. David can tell they’re going to keep disagreeing about this for the whole rest of their lives, and honestly? He can’t wait.</p><p>A cheer goes up near the safe, so they must have gotten it open. Which means, probably, any second now Ray is going to—Yes:</p><p>“Moira Rose has died many times. Mostly at the hands of demon attacks and possessions on the popular soap opera Sunrise Bay, but also one time on the internet. Here in Schitt’s Creek, though, she was reborn. She spread her wings in the role of Dr. Clara Mandrake and has never stopped soaring. Check out her IMDB page for her latest credits! And speaking of listings, don’t forget to visit Ray Butani Real Estate to put a down payment on your own fresh start! For ten years running, we’ve been voted the only real estate agency in town!”</p><p>“Oh no, am I being celebrated?” The closet door rattles. “Did I miss it? Help! John!”</p><p>“Hang on, Moira, the latch is stuck.”</p><p>Stevie snorts from somewhere behind David. “I’m telling you, the level of realism Ray achieved in here is spooky.”</p><p>“So this iPad showing your mother’s IMDB page was the only thing in the safe.” Mr. Brewer brings it over and holds it so they can all get a look at the screen.</p><p>“There has to be a clue to the wig puzzle in here somewhere.” Patrick’s bottom lip is going to fall off if he keeps chewing it like that. Unacceptable. “It’s the only thing left and we’re running out of time.”</p><p>“Wait, these credits aren’t right.” Alexis scrolls back up to the top of the page. “Mom wasn’t in the remake of <em>The Hunt for Red October</em>, so why is that listed second?”</p><p>The wigs are still all laid out on the vanity. There are two red ones. Two red wigs. Two hooks with the number two on them.</p><p>“And something called <em>Black Mirror: Bandersnatch</em> is listed first, but I’ve never even heard of that. Is that a movie?”</p><p>Four black wigs. Four hooks with the number one.</p><p>“It’s a paint by number!” David bursts forward. “Or like a—wig by number, I guess? Whatever, just let me—”</p><p>He doesn’t need to read the rest of the clues in the list. The image has already come together before his eyes. The black wigs go on these four hooks, the red ones on those two, and the eight pink all around… Yes.</p><p>He’s almost finished when Patrick reaches across and flips the position of two of the blonde wigs.</p><p>“I see what you’re doing here, but let’s do your mom a favor and keep Kirsten and Robyn separated, huh?”</p><p>“Wha—How do you know which ones are—?”</p><p>Patrick shrugs. “She showed me her spreadsheet once. What was I supposed to do, <em>not</em> memorize it?”</p><p>David is married to Cam Jansen. Of all his childhood dreams to come true, this isn’t the one he expected.</p><p>“Okay. We’ll have to unpack that later, because there’s no time for it now.”</p><p>He fluffs the final wig, steps back, and surveys his work. It’s—</p><p>“My face!” His mother emerges from the closet just in time for her moment.</p><p>“Yes.” David nods. “That is correct.”</p><p>Arranged this way, the wigs form a striking, hairy, minimalist portrait of his mother—the red wigs for her lips, the black wigs for her eyes, the pink wigs for her skin, and so on. It’s not bad pop art, actually.</p><p>“So now what?” David is breathing hard in a way he only associates with trying at sports. Gross.</p><p>No one answers; they’re all busy looking around the room. They’re out of clues, time is almost up, so there has to be something here that will leap out at one of them.</p><p>The thing that ends up leaping out at them is the front door, which swings into the room followed by a cheerful “Knock knock!”</p><p>David flinches and tucks himself behind his husband out of instinct, because yeah, that trigger is still there.</p><p>“Ray, no!” Patrick tosses his arms like a toddler. “Did time run out? I didn’t hear the—”</p><p>“Not at all! You did it! I’m here to congratulate you!”</p><p>David fights the Pavlovian urge to ask if there are pancakes.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>0 Minutes Remaining</b>
</p><p>“Mr. and Mrs. Brewer, I want to apologize for the way my family received your gift.” David lingers by the door on the way out, looking for a chance to talk to his in-laws alone. “It was a really nice thought to bring us here.”</p><p>“No, David, we should apologize for making it a surprise.” Mrs. Brewer pats his arm, kind and careful of the knit. “We should have realized it would be a shock. It’s not like we didn’t already know that you’re all a bit… excitable.”</p><p>Okay, David doesn’t <em>love</em> the way that apology was phrased? Or maybe he just doesn’t love the accuracy. Either way, the sooner he accepts it, the sooner he gets to go home and drink eggnog.</p><p>“Well.” His smile tightens. “It’s all behind us now.”</p><p>They file out and then David’s alone in the room. He can hear his family, all of them, celebrating out in the lobby (if you can call it a lobby when it’s a barn). Of course his mother’s voice rises above the rest.</p><p>“You know, Raymond. I am always flattered by fanart. But next time you can just send me a photo.”</p><p>“I’ll give you a link to my tumblr, Mrs. Rose.”</p><p>“Fill that tumbler with vodka and I am more than on board!”</p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>David jumps at the closeness of Stevie’s voice.</p><p>“Nothing. Just. Thinking.” He can tell without even looking at her that leaving it there is not going to fly. “Out of all the Roses, I’m the one who didn’t escape this place. Not fully.”</p><p>“What, because you didn’t move away somewhere dazzling and exciting?”</p><p>“Not yet. Maybe I won’t. Ever.”</p><p>“David.” Stevie punches at his arm, unkind and uncareful of the knit. “Didn’t you see what happened in here tonight? None of you have escaped this place. Doesn’t matter how far you go.”</p><p>“Wow, that’s a dark take.” David slants out a smile. “But also… nice.”</p><p>“Yeah, I think so too. Now come on, there’s eggnog waiting at home.” She turns and walks away.</p><p>“Okay, but that’s <em>my</em> home and <em>my</em> eggnog you’re talking about.”</p><p>“Is it?” She doesn’t even look back when she asks it, the little twerp.</p><p>David’s going to follow her; that isn’t the last word. But he needs one last look at this room he never thought he’d see again. They replaced all the carpets at the real motel last year. Painted over the turquoise brick the year before that. This year they’re working on tiling the bathrooms. Pretty soon nothing will be the same. And no one who stays there now would slather it in Christmas like this, would decorate it like a home. This place doesn’t exist anymore, and that’s fine. He doesn’t need it to. It was still nice to visit.</p><p>He closes the door.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Shout out to swat117 for reading this through, telling me which spots were confusing, and graciously allowing me to leave most of them unfixed.</p><p>Dear prompter, thank you for gifting me this opportunity to write this odd little love letter to our show! It was a fun and frustrating puzzle to put together, and I hope you enjoyed it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>